The Art of War

TWENTY-ONE

Just off of her main office, Ambassador Wexler had a small personal room. In it she kept several changes of clothes, a vanity with a full selection of her cosmetics, and other items, including an emergency evening dress for special occasions. A single bed was in one corner of the room, allowing her to catch a quick nap during times when she simply couldn’t leave the United Nations for her house.

Now, standing in front of the vanity, she contemplated her image. Businesslike, yes. But feminine, the light coral fabric lending a glow to her complexion.

She contemplated her jewelry again, then removed a bracelet. Put on everything that’s necessary, then remove one piece, her mother had always told her.

Funny how many of her mother’s old sayings proved to be a help in the U.N.

She surveyed herself again, then all at once was annoyed with herself. What was the big deal? This was dinner with T’ing, nothing special. Although, she had to admit that the dinners were increasingly becoming part of her regular routine.

T’ing was always a pleasant, cordial dinner partner, a man with a fascinating insight into relationships between nations. She found his insights helpful: On occasion he had even, in his subtle way, made suggestions about how she should approach issues that concerned the United States.

But he was a professional colleague, nothing more. There was no… well… romantic interest.

Was there? She brushed the thought away. Of course not. They were simply two adults who enjoyed each other’s company, no matter that they were almost always on opposite sides of every issue that confronted the United Nations. And given T’ing’s subtlety in conducting his nation’s affairs, she wouldn’t put it past him to cultivate the friendship to satisfy his own agenda.

With a sigh, she took off another piece of her jewelry, then changed the coral suit for a plainer, more businesslike suit. She ditched the high heels, and settled for her flats.

And, after all, it wasn’t like T’ing was the only one with an agenda. The president had become aware of her growing friendship with the ambassador from China, and had openly encouraged her to pursue it. There were, he said, a number of issues on which they would be confronting China, and it would do no harm to have special insight into one of the great minds to emerge from that nation.

There was a rap on the door, and then Brad, her aide, stuck his head inside. “Your car’s here.”

“Thanks. I’m ready, I think. How do I look?” She pirouetted, allowing him to assess her from all angles.

“Perfect,” he reassure her. “Just the right balance between hegemony and democracy.” A sly smile followed.

Wexler laughed out loud. That was one of the things that made Brad so valuable as an aide — his sense of humor. He always seemed to know exactly what to do to lift her spirits, and she never ceased to be amazed at his devotion. When she was worried about something, down in the dumps, or simply boiling over with rage — as seemed to be more often the case than not these days — Brad was always there. With tea just the way she liked it, maybe a snack, or even just an attentive ear to listen while she vented.

At times, she wondered whether Brad was particularly devoted to her or was just exceptionally good at what he did. She’d never asked, and she suspected either explanation could be equally true. Brad was never anything other than the perfect staff officer, and she had no idea of what lay behind his charming demeanor.

Not that it mattered. Brad was also one of the few people who would tell her the truth, point out a loophole she overlooked in pending legislation, or tell her that a color suited her.

“Pacini’s?” he asked, mentioning the name of a quiet Italian restaurant nearby.

She nodded. “We’re getting to be regulars there.”

Brad walked with her down to the main entrance, then handed her off to her chauffeur. “Same thing as usual,” she said. “I don’t think you’ll need me for anything, but if you do, don’t hesitate call.”

“I will.”

T’ing was waiting for her in the foyer. His two bodyguards were seated at the bar, each one holding a glass of clear liquid. Soda water, she expected.

If you didn’t know anything about them, you would think that they were just businessmen getting off work, enjoying happy hour before going home. That is, if you didn’t look at their eyes. That was what gave them away. They were flat and passive, constantly moving over the room, scanning the people coming in, those going out, mentally recording faces and comparing them with their database of threats. There had not been, as far as Wexler knew, any particular threats on T’ing’s life. Then again, she suspected he would not have told her if there had been.

T’ing bowed slightly. “They’re holding a table for us.”

Another advantage of being an ambassador to the United Nations — even the finest restaurants in town always managed to find a table for her, even on short notice. She took the elbow T’ing proffered, and let him lead her to the table. Once they were seated, he opened the wine list and studied it for a moment, then ordered a bottle of Chablis.

She lifted one eyebrow in surprise. It was rare for him to have anything to drink. “Special occasion?”

“It is very difficult to propose a toast without wine,” he said gravely. “I try to follow the customs of your country.”

“A toast, hmmm? Might I know what we’re toasting?”

“In good time. I understand you have been busy today,” he continued, deftly changing the subject. It was something he was an expert at. She considered pressing the point, then let it lie. T’ing normally had his own time schedule, and she had learned by now that it was rarely worthwhile to try to rush him.

Briefly, she recounted her conversation with the ambassador from Iran, leaving out her threat to ask the president to deploy nuclear weapons there. It had been mostly bluster, and she suspected that it would turn out to be interpreted as something else entirely if it ever made the rounds.

Finally, she concluded, “They don’t like dealing with women. But this is one time they’ll have to get used to it.”

T’ing listened patiently, and a sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “They would be wise not to underestimate you.”

Just then, the wine arrived. T’ing waited while the glasses were filled, then raised his in a toast. “To friendship.” He clicked his glass lightly against hers as she repeated toast, and took a delicate sip.

“That’s it? Friendship?” she asked.

“Isn’t that enough?”

This time she did laughed. “All right, have it your way.”

T’ing shook his head. “We know each other too well.” He took another sip of his wine and his expression turned grave. “I have heard about your encounter with the Iranians. And what I have heard worries me greatly. I know you travel around the city unaccompanied. I wish for you to reassess that practice. Should you lack for suitable security, I will be glad to loan you a couple of my men.”

Wexler sat back, surprised. Was this what this was about? Concerns about her safety? And just exactly what had he heard about her encounter with the Iranian ambassador? She took a deep breath before replying, aware that there were always circles within circles to any offer from T’ing. “Is there a reason for me to be concerned?” She waited.

“Yes. Without a doubt. And if you value our friendship, I would ask that you take this warning seriously.” He leaned forward, reaching out and covering her hand with his. “Please, Sarah. The friendship cannot continue in this life if one of the parties to it is dead.”

“And you have specific reasons for believing there may be a threat?” she pressed. “Not just vague concerns?”

He nodded. “Very specific. From sources I trust.”

Was this another one of T’ing’s games? No, the look of concern on his face was real. Although she was quite certain he wouldn’t tell her exactly what or how he learned of the threat, she thought she had better take it seriously. She gave his hand a squeeze, then withdrew it. “I shall. Starting right now.” She withdrew the cell phone from her pocket and flipped it opened. She speeded dialed Brad’s number, and quickly filled him in.

“They will be there in fifteen minutes,” Brad promised. “Are you in immediate danger?”

She glanced across at T’ing. “I doubt it. The ambassador’s men are here.”

“Very well. Do not leave the restaurant until my men have identified themselves to you, understand?” There was a hard note in Brad’s voice now, one she had not heard before. Gone was the pleasant, smiling aide she had always known, and her questions about his background surfaced again.

“Agreed.” She snapped her phone shut and asked, “Will that do it?”

He nodded. “Your Brad, he is a very competent man, isn’t he? In more ways than one.”

And just what the hell did that mean? Did he know more about Brad than she did? She wouldn’t be surprised. Of course, everyone on her staff had passed a rigorous security investigation, but there was always a chance they’d missed something.

T’ing leaned back in his seat. “And now let us enjoy our dinner. The fish for you?”

For a moment, she thought about the offer she had received from the Red Cross. To take over as its executive director sounded particularly tempting at this moment. Oh, sure, there would be political intrigues, competitions for money, all the sort of stuff you would expect in any large organization. But a threat to her life — she doubted it.

She raised her glass. “To friendship.” They clinked, then she said, “And yes, the grouper sounds particularly good.”